“And suppose I did, sir?” retorted Sir Hector, flushing. “A MacLean may change his mind and be the better of it.... And how may I help but revere and admire The Sex with such an example as Rose, her sweet and gentle ways——” “But Rose never was!” sighed Sir John. “Herminia, then!” snapped Sir Hector. “Not to mention her aunt!” murmured Sir John. At this, Sir Hector glared and made to rise, but, meeting Sir John’s whimsical look, feeling his hand upon the sleeve of the second-best coat, Sir Hector flushed, his gaze sought the green of the chestnut tree beyond the open window, and his grim lips curved to a smile. “And ... O man, tae think she’s—a duchess! ’Tis awfu’, Johnnie, awfu’!” “Alas, Hector, to think she is a woman, and this is worse. A woman, Hector, and therefore to be avoided. For, how saith your bard? ‘She is but Satan’s chiefest snare.’” “Umph-humph!” exclaimed Sir Hector, and rose. “Aweel, lad,” he sighed, “I dinna ken wha’ bee’s in y’r bonnet regardin’ yon sweet Rose, but——” “Lady Herminia!” Sir John corrected. “But look’ee, lad, had it not been for Herminia’s loving, tender care, Penelope Haryott would ha’ died.... And, talking o’ good women, John, if ever there was one, it is Penelope.” “She knew my father, it seems.” “She did, John.” “She once showed me two miniatures....” “Aye, I mind your father having ’em done. Her likeness he kept always ... it was upon his breast the day he died! ’Twas that which turned the bayonet into his heart!... He gave his earliest and, I think, his best love to Penelope, and she but a cottager’s daughter born on his estate and twelve years his senior. But she was beautiful beyond the ordinary, and good as she was clever, and he wooed vainly ... even when he would ha’ married her she would not ... because he was Dering of Dering and she only her pure, humble self.... So, in time he wed your mother ... and died in my arms ... murmuring—‘Penelope!’ Ah, John lad, if by reason of some misunderstanding your heart be sore, never decry Woman ... for here, truly, was one of the purest and most selfless, noblest of creatures!” Being alone, Sir John sat thoughtful awhile; at last he reached for his manuscript, tore it slowly across and across, and threw it into the fireplace; then, evening being at hand, he took hat and stick, and, descending by a back stair, sallied forth into the fragrant dusk. CHAPTER XLIV IN WHICH THE GHOST FLITS TO GOOD PURPOSE It was dark as he reached the old stile hard by the little footbridge, and, perceiving a shrouded form thereby, halted suddenly; but as he peered, uncertain, a soft voice spoke: “John!” He drew back hastily; the figure moved towards him. “Sir John Dering?” Off came Sir John’s hat in a moment, and he bowed profoundly. “Gad’s my life!” he exclaimed. “Do I indeed behold your ladyship? Bide you still i’ the country, madam? A fair good-night to you!” And he turned away, only to find her beside him.